


You Can Reach for Me

by god_commissioned_me



Series: Library Magic [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_commissioned_me/pseuds/god_commissioned_me
Summary: “Jon, you’re not - you’re not a bother!” Martin scoots in closer, slowly wrapping both of his hands around one of Jon’s trembling ones. He doesn’t squeeze, but he begins to work his thumbs ever so carefully against Jon’s palm, gently soothing some of the tension there. “I know I can’t take it away, Jon, but I want to make it as bearable as I can. I want to help. Let me be with you.”Jon wakes to a fibromyalgia flare and receives care and affirmation from Martin.Set between Drawn to that Sort of Library Magic and Things That Make it Warm, but can be read as a standalone!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Library Magic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792294
Comments: 33
Kudos: 329





	You Can Reach for Me

**Author's Note:**

> \- cw for internalized ableism, namely a disabled character experiencing fear of burdening a loved one; this fear is addressed and resolved with the loved one. the descriptions of chronic illness and the conversations related to internalized ableism are informed by my own experiences as a disabled person with fibromyalgia.  
> \- not central to the fic, but martin is autistic and both he and jon are trans in this au! i have to project on them or i die  
> \- title from "long shadows" by josh ritter (it's a top tier jonmartin song and i implore you to listen to it)

Jon isn’t fully conscious yet, but he already knows today is a Bad Day. It’s the only clear thought breaking through the fog in his mind. He’s exhausted and hasn’t even opened his eyes to face the morning light prickling against his face; his neck and shoulders are tight, muscles twitching against phantom razors; his legs throb with a heavy pain that presses him down into the bed; his hands, curled around the front of Martin’s t-shirt, are too stiff to move.

Martin. 

Shit. 

Jon bites back a groan, letting his eyes flutter open slightly. Martin’s spent the night, he remembers now, and he’s lying facing Jon with a peaceful expression on his sleeping face. He’s got one arm slung atop Jon. They’re close - very close, Jon tucked up against Martin, holding each other just as they’d been when Jon dozed off last night. The window behind Martin is pouring sunlight in, highlighting the speckles of dust that drift over the bed and glistening in the gingery tints of Martin’s strawberry blond hair. 

Ordinarily, Jon would have cherished this moment. He would’ve clung to every second spent in Martin’s arms, cataloging every beautiful detail of his skin, studying the soft downward curve of his lower lip that looks almost pouting in sleep. Maybe he would have dared even to press his own lips against Martin’s forehead, take advantage of it being in easy reach.

But no, Jon thinks vaguely when he tries to shift and has to gasp out a dazed, pained little breath, today it is not an easy reach. Today even the handful of centimeters between their faces is too far a distance to cross. His existence is constricted to the space his body occupies in this moment; beyond that is a confusing fog of twisting aches, and it is not for him to occupy. Not on a Bad Day.

There is no time to wonder what has caused this flare. He can’t parse through every movement, every action he’d taken the day before - the light filtering into the room won’t allow Martin to sleep much longer.

There is only time to think about how he can manage his flare with Martin here. Thoughts are… difficult, bumping into each other and chasing their tails before they break apart and are lost in the  _ haze  _ that crowds his mind. Once he had thought the fabled fibro fog was the worst of his symptoms. His body has since proven him wrong - it can hurt him in so many other ways - but he still resents how slowly ideas pull together when he wakes up like this. Martin’s legs are shifting beneath the blankets and there isn’t  _ time _ , he’s going to see, he’s going to know how useless Jon is like this, and Jon doesn’t think he can bear that pain on top of all the others.

Martin has never seen him on a truly Bad Day. Sure, he knows about Jon’s fibromyalgia. He knows that sometimes Jon’s flares hit him hard enough that leaving the flat, even moving from room to room, is all but impossible. But the thought of Martin worrying over him like this gives Jon an unhappy twinge in his chest. The feeling shifts slightly, moving into his stomach, and Jon swallows nervously. Even worse than making Martin worry, he thinks, is making him uncomfortable, even scared. Or scaring him away.

It’s a lot, Jon knows, to see someone you care about in pain. He knows the way helplessness pulls at you when there’s nothing you can do to take it away - and he’s terrified of what Martin may do if that weight becomes too much. 

So, he determines, he won’t burden Martin at all. Sure, Martin may be confused when he asks him to leave, but that’s better than seeing him upset or frustrated over Jon. Yes. At last this conclusion actualizes in his brain, giving him a goal to cling to, something he can  _ do _ in spite of the pain. Spare Martin. Yes.

Jon tries to flex his hands, preparing to let go of Martin’s shirt, when Martin lets out a gentle mumble and blinks open those honey-sweet eyes. 

“Hey,” he whispers. His voice is still thick with sleep, but it’s no less gentle than ever. “Good morning.”

Jon tries to answer, but his throat closes around a wordless croak instead.

Martin hums softly and tightens his arm around Jon, drawing him in closer to his broad, warm chest and moving to tuck his chin over the top of Jon’s head.

Pain darts through Jon as he’s jostled, knees jerking instinctively and then immediately protesting the movement, and he hisses between gritted teeth before he can stop himself. 

“Jon?” Martin stops, raises himself up on one elbow to look at him, concern flashing over his face. “Did I - are you - Jon, what’s wrong?”

Jon curls his arms over his own chest, trying to hide the way his hands are still cramped into loose fists even though they’re no longer holding Martin’s shirt. “Nothing, Martin, nothing.” He closes his eyes. He must be careful, careful here, but it’s so hard to gather up his words when they’re scattered in the fog. “You know - you - why don’t you go home… mm, home, you should get more rest.” Weak, but it’s the best he can do under such short notice. He forges on, “I, I’d just keep you up, probably, and - ”

“You want me to leave?” There’s bewilderment bordering on hurt in Martin’s voice. He stammers a little as he continues, “Did, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Jon says as forcefully as he can. “No, Martin, you’re perfect, I promise.” He tries to struggle into a sitting position. The pain is radiating waves of heat down his entire spine now, and his sheets could be made of sandpaper for all the pain they alight when his legs drag across them. He’s grateful for his long hair falling like a curtain over his face as he gives up and sinks back into his pillows, hiding the way his expression twists, but he can’t stop the stuttering whimper that slips out before he can clench his teeth around it.

“Jon?” Oh, he sounds panicky now. Just what Jon wanted to avoid. Fresh misery lacerates through his body just as tangibly as the pain of his locking joints and quivering muscles. “Should I - do I need to get Georgie?”

“No, I - I’m sorry, Martin.” Jon sighs. His chest hurts from the effort. “It’s just - it’s a flare, but it’s fine, I promise. I can deal with it, just… don’t worry about it, I’ll call you later, I - ”

“Jon, no, I’m not leaving you like this.” Martin’s voice is still pitched with anxiety, but it’s firmer now. He reaches out gently, pushing Jon’s hair back from his face. His fingertips are warm and soft when they graze over his skin, and Jon leans into the source of comfort unthinkingly. “What can I do?”

“I don’t… no, I don’t want to bother you,” Jon says. His voice is small. His hands are shaking now, both from the pain and from the fear of the fallout he  _ knows  _ will come from Martin watching him like this. 

“Jon, you’re not - you’re not a bother!” Martin scoots in closer, slowly wrapping both of his hands around one of Jon’s trembling ones. He doesn’t squeeze, but he begins to work his thumbs ever so carefully against Jon’s palm, gently soothing some of the tension there. “I know I can’t take it away, Jon, but I want to make it as bearable as I can. I  _ want  _ to help. Let me be with you.”

He’s so  _ earnest _ that Jon can’t bring himself to do anything but nod, dropping his eyes to watch as Martin rubs carefully at his hand.

“Is this okay?” Martin whispers.

Jon nods again. “Y-yes,” he murmurs back. The warmth and soft pressure help work through the worst of the stiffness, slowly easing the pain until he’s able to uncurl his fingers. 

Martin scoots in closer, making sure not to bump against Jon but shifting until he’s close enough that Jon can lean into him on his own. It’s hard to move, but he manages to huddle into Martin’s side, supporting his head against his belly as he closes his eyes again. There are tendrils of embarrassment and that nagging worry that it will all be too much for Martin, but between the fatigue clinging to him and the thick haze slowing his thoughts, he just can’t find the strength to act on them. Martin keeps massaging his hand, working over each of his fingers in turn before making his way down to his wrist. It  _ helps _ , loosening the invisible snarls of pain until it’s settled into a duller, more tolerable ache. After a few minutes, he takes Jon’s other hand and does the same thing. 

Martin’s hands are so much bigger than Jon’s own, all wide and strong, but they’re nothing short of delicate as they touch him. He never tugs, never pushes too hard, only moves with that loving softness that Jon has learned marks everything he does. Even as he shudders through the pain, he feels comforted… safe. 

Finally, Martin bends down to brush his lips against the back of Jon’s hand before he releases it. He drops his own hand into Jon’s hair now, stroking softly. “What can I do, Jon? What might help?”

Jon has to clear his throat a couple of times before he’s able to speak. “Could you… would you… tea?”

“Of course,” Martin says kindly. “Do you want something to eat, too?”

Jon shakes his head no.

“All right then.” Martin extracts himself cautiously, making sure Jon is well supported with pillows as he slips out of the bed. “Back soon, okay?”

Jon watches him pad out of the room. For someone so constantly full of self-doubt, he seems very  _ purposeful _ , as if taking care of people is something he knows how to do.

It makes sense, Jon realizes. Martin spent all those years caring for his mother. That old prickle of worry awakes in his stomach again, the fear that Martin is only here because of some sense of obligation to take care of people.

Oh God, he’s trapping Martin. 

The idea gathers strength, building on itself like an errant snowball crashing recklessly through his mind. He’s going to drag him down, make him feel compelled to stay and care because that’s what Martin does, that’s who he is, a man who takes care of others because it’s all he thinks he’s allowed to do. It isn’t  _ fair.  _ Martin doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to be tied to someone whose ability to get out of bed rests in the whims of an illness beyond his own control. He’s so full of light and love, and Jon’s going to suck it all away, selfishly draining him of independence just like his mother had.

There are hot tears dripping down Jon’s nose. He didn’t even feel them pooling in his eyes until they’ve run free, and he wants to hide them but it’s  _ so hard  _ to move, to think, to do anything but sit so still and small while his body thrums with all the different hurts that he won’t ever be able to escape. Even the heavy numbness in his mind doesn’t harbor him from the searing pain of self-hatred; it only makes it all the more disorienting. 

“Jon? Oh, Jon, love, what is it?” 

He hadn’t heard Martin enter the room, and he barely registers the sound of him setting a mug on the bedside table before moving back onto the mattress beside him.

His voice is full of aching as he says, “I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it away.” 

He would if he could, Jon knows. He’d take every ounce of pain right into his own body if he were able, and it isn’t right. He sniffles and tries to wipe his eyes free of tears with the back of one hand. It hurts him. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. 

“Wh-what?”

“Don’t. You don’t… deserve it.” Jon drops his hand back to the bed with a wince. 

“Don’t deserve what?” Martin sounds so lost and confused, but he opens his arms to Jon all the same.

“This. I’m sorry. For making you…” Jon shakes his head helplessly, a small motion, constricted by his protesting muscles. 

Martin watches him for a few moments, trying to understand, before making a hesitant sound. “Hm, Jon… you know I  _ want  _ to be here, right? I want to be with  _ you,  _ I  _ want  _ you.” His arms lower to his sides, but he doesn’t move away from Jon. He stays close beside him. 

“I know you do, but you - shouldn’t.” Jon blinks rapidly, dislodging another tear. There’s a ragged jerkiness in his words. “You shouldn’t want this, you shouldn’t have to take care of someone all the time, you deserve -”

“Jon.” Martin cuts him off, and his voice is steady now. “No. I’ve spent my entire life listening to people tell me what I should want, what I shouldn’t do. Not anymore. Jon, I know myself. I know what I want. And it’s you.”

“But,” Jon starts, miserable.

“It’s  _ you, _ ” Martin pushes on fiercely, “it’s all of you. Good days and bad days, Jon. You don’t get to decide -  _ no one  _ gets to decide for me anymore. If you don’t want me, you have to tell me that, but you don’t get to tell me what I want. It’s  _ you _ .”

Jon lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m… I’m sorry, Martin.”

“No, you have  _ nothing  _ to be sorry for. You are perfect, Jon, and you don’t have to, to overcome this or hide your pain from me to be worthy of love. You are  _ enough _ , Jon, you’re  _ whole _ , and I - I love you.” Martin opens his arms again.

This time Jon leans into him gratefully, and the tears sliding down his cheeks now don’t sting with panic or self-loathing. “I love you too,” he whispers against Martin’s shirt.

Martin cradles him gently and peppers the top of his head with soft, assuring kisses. They sit that way in silence for a few minutes as Jon spends the last of his tears and, finally, gives a nervous huff of laughter. Then he cringes at the pain that alights in his chest.

“Here.” Martin reaches gingerly for the mug on the bedside table, doing his best not to bump Jon. “Your tea is getting cold.” He cups the back of Jon’s head, helping him rise slightly so he can drink without spilling.

Jon wraps both hands around the mug carefully, afraid of dropping it even with Martin’s fingertips hovering close, and takes a slow sip. It’s perfect - it always is. “Thank you,” he says.

Martin gives a low hum and takes the mug from him once he’s finished. Jon curls against his lap, hiding his face in the fabric of his shirt. Martin’s hand returns to Jon’s hair, stroking carefully, fingertips winding through and releasing the tangles there. After a moment, Jon realizes that he’s braiding. His fingers are light and soothing as they gather the strands around his temples, and Jon finds himself tilting his head into the sensation, welcoming the touches as the distractions from the rest of his body that they are. Martin murmurs wordlessly when he leans toward the bedside table again, this time to search out a hair tie. He presses another kiss onto Jon’s crown when he’s finished. His hands don’t leave, petting down his arms and shoulders as Jon melts just a little further against him.

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles again.

Martin brushes gentle fingertips across Jon’s bare neck, barely pressing into the stiff muscles there and chasing his touches with more kisses. It’s unbearably tender. It makes something in Jon’s chest squeeze in a delightfully familiar way, an ache that has nothing to do with his fibromyalgia. “Do you - do you think you’ll be up to moving out of bed?”

Jon hesitates. “Maybe? I don’t… I don’t know if I can sit.”

“That’s okay. There’s no rush.” Martin nuzzles against him, trailing more gentle kisses. “Where does it hurt the most?”

“My… my hands,” Jon says. “My knees, my back… shoulders.”

“Oh, love,” Martin murmurs. His thumbs find Jon’s shoulders and rub careful circles there too. Each touch encourages tenseness out of Jon’s body - not taking it away, not erasing the pain, but - making it bearable. Making it better.

God, Martin makes it so much better.

Jon gives a quiet, wet laugh at the idea that he’d wanted to send Martin away. Maybe he still feels selfish, maybe there’s a prickle in the back of his skull that suggests he’s being a burden, but Martin’s hands take up more space, pull his focus away from the darkness inside to the love outside. 

“I like helping,” Martin says, as if he can read Jon’s mind. He always seems to be able to, always knows how to soothe Jon’s anxieties in a way no one else ever has been able to do. “I like… caring for you. I mean, you know I care for you. But it’s like, if I can show it… if I can  _ do  _ something… it makes it more… tangible.”

“I think I understand,” Jon says. He really thinks he does. The idea of it makes a home in his chest, curling up into a ball of safety that he wants to wrap his arms around and protect. “I… I’m lucky, Martin. To know you. To have you.” His voice is soft and rough with pain, but he thinks it conveys his earnestness. He hopes. “You’re… so good.”

The sound Martin makes suggests that Jon isn’t the only one still fighting tears. “It’s not about goodness, Jon. It’s not - it’s not about that. It’s just about loving you. You know that, right? You know - I’m not choosing to do something because I feel like it’s the right thing. I’m choosing you, my partner, because I love you.”

“Oh,” Jon tries to say, but it sounds more like a quiet keen. “I’m - I’m choosing you too, you know.”

“I know,” Martin says with a voice half strangled with wonder. He hands Jon the lukewarm mug of tea again. 

Jon drinks it. It settles in his stomach, another source of comfort to remind him he’s not fighting his body alone. He stretches his legs hesitantly, and his knees finally permit him to straighten them, though it sends throbbing darts of complaint back through his joints. 

“Braces?” Martin asks, and when Jon nods, he helps Jon lean back against the headboard before climbing off the bed once more and digging the braces out from beneath it. He brushes his hands down Jon’s right leg, the one closest to him, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pajama pants so they don’t bunch and irritate Jon before carefully lifting his leg enough to slide the brace beneath it. He begins the process of wrapping it, folding each strap of velco through its loop and pressing it gently down. It’s not too tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold Jon’s twitching, aching muscles still. Then he moves around the bed to do the other. It’s a tender dance, movements memorized though he’s only ever watched Jon go through them. 

If Jon’s hands weren’t so stiff and sore, he might bury his face in them. It’s overwhelming to see, to know the adoration in Martin’s eyes, the attention he’s given Jon today and always.

_ He isn’t afraid,  _ Jon thinks.  _ God, he isn’t afraid.  _

Finished with their work, Martin’s hands come to cup Jon’s chin, those gentle thumbs now stroking his jawline and the faint stubble there. “What else can I do, love?” he asks.

“Hold me?” Jon asks in the smallest of voices. It’s hard to ask for. 

Martin nods like it’s the easiest answer imaginable and tucks himself back against Jon’s body in the bed, pulling the blanket over Jon’s braces and into his lap before gently tugging him to lie against his broad, firm chest.

“Thank you for letting me be with you right now,” Martin murmurs, as if he isn’t the one offering Jon the most perfect gift by being so calm and sure and solid. As if Jon is something precious, something to be desired.

If he keeps holding him so reverently, Jon thinks, he might learn to believe that he is.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i wrote this before i posted anything else in this au! it's just been sitting in my drafts while i debated over posting it for [checks calendar] six months bc i’ve never been as nervous about sharing something i’ve written ;A;  
> i still have a few more fics outlined for this series, but it may be a while before i get around to finishing them. however, i've got a couple of other aus in the works that i'm excited to share in the nearish future!


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